


Care

by redscout



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Canon-typical language, Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 09:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: And then it happens too fast, too much, he can’t see but there’s somebody on top of him and he doesn’t feel dead, so maybe that’s a step up. His vision clears entirely when he sees blood red on top of maroon.





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> aka simmons takes a Brute Shot for grif for the current rvb angst war, and my technical second prompt of it.
> 
> prompt:  
> "grimmons where one of them takes a bullet/other attack for the other person, maybe?"
> 
> set during n+1.

Not a lot registered in the painful white blur that was Sidewinder other than the fact that it was a painful white blur. Grif was moving too fast, too much was happening, his entire body hurt and he was tired of diving out of the way of explosions. Too fast, too much. Adrenaline surged through his veins, keeping his legs up, keeping them moving forward, out of the way, or-- hell, there goes his shoulder, that’s fine, he’s used to walking it off. Red Team rule is walk it off, maybe use a little aloe vera, he’ll live. He’s not paying attention any longer, and _god_ , he really wants to sit down but his legs won’t let him even though his vision’s getting worse and worse and man he _really_ wants to sit down right now. Can’t stop moving, though, too fast, too much, oh god, there _he_ is again, with that big fucking gun of his, man, _fuck_ that guy, if he stops moving he’s gonna get _annihilated_ \--

A Brute Shot hit knocks him over to the side again and he almost stops completely. His hearing’s wonky again, he can’t see very well-- man, he’s really hoping his visor doesn’t crack by the end of today-- but, shit, he gets back up anyway, until-- no, he doesn’t, a kick from a heavy foot sends him sprawled back into the snow and he guesses that’s it. It’s an indication he needs to rest. He’s not bothering to move. The Meta doesn’t even worry about holding him in place with a foot, like he already knows he’s got Grif on his last legs. That’s fine. He’s had enough. It was too fast and too much anyway. He’s sure that bearish motherfucker’s setting up to shoot him again right now and he’s positive his armor can’t take anymore. That’s it. Rest time now, no getting up.

And then it happens too fast, too much, he can’t see but there’s somebody on top of him and he doesn’t feel dead, so maybe that’s a step up. His vision clears entirely when he sees blood red on top of maroon.

“Simmons?” The word comes out grainy, Grif’s not even sure if he’s the one speaking, but he tries to sit up and a pain in his legs makes him wince but there’s something more important at stake. He tries to move the form of the person he’s probably assuming is Simmons but that elicits a low groan-- from _somebody_ \-- and he lets himself fall back to the snow, breathing hard. The Meta’s busy with everybody else now, and Grif takes a second to wonder why he’s still alive.

“...Simmons?” he tries again, and he knows he’s speaking this time. The person in his lap moves until he’s rolled over on his side next to Grif, and that’s when he sees it again, blood red.

“Grif…” comes as a sort of answer, and before he can even process it, anxiety wells up in his chest like the ocean, drowning him, making it hard to breathe. Simmons coughs. He’s bleeding. He’s dying.

“Simmons, you…” He’s not even really sure what he’s supposed to be saying but that fight or flight response is back and he’s not going to flight this time and he wrenches the helmet from off his friend’s head, tossing it weakly to the side. He’s still registering. Simmons is dying. He presses a hand to the other man’s bloody abdomen, feeling his stomach heave underneath the touch. It’s too warm and he can’t breathe and in a moment his own helmet is off.

“He was going to… kill you…” Simmons manages out, and it clicks. And Grif wants to strangle him right there, to smack him so hard he feels it a week from now.

“You… fucking, _idiot!_ ” His blood-soaked hand hits the snow and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about where all of this red is going to go, doesn’t care if Donut has a fucking _aneurysm_ over trying to get it out. “You… why would you do that? Who cares about me?!”

“Grif, I--” Simmons tries again, sadness in his eyes, but Grif isn’t listening, overcome with too many emotions, too fast, too much. He can’t figure out what to do with his hands, to clench them or clasp them or wring them or, or _something!_ There has to be something he can do instead of sit here and watch his best friend die for a war he was never really fighting for, right? _Right?_

“Stupid! Y-you’re the one with potential! Idiot! Simmons, you idiot!” He breathes in deeply for a second and then visibly regrets meeting eyes with his dying companion, leaning over him again to try and get a better look at the wound. “Ugh, the fucking, shrapnel, this looks really bad, Simmons--” He doesn’t know the terminology for medical analysis but it doesn’t seem like Simmons is listening anyway, a gentle hand against the side of his arm interrupting him.

“Grif,” he says again, his tone light, and Grif’s freak halts as the man in the snow forces them to lock gazes. “He was… gonna kill you, I couldn’t…” He coughs and Grif’s chest constricts.

“So, you’ll die? What kind’a shitty logic is that? Fucking, stupid, you’re smarter than that, you’re better than…” He trails off, mumbling, using his non-bloody hand to wipe at his eyes.

“Maybe it… is stupid,” Simmons chuckles, and Grif manages to force himself to stand again, reaching down hastily to help his companion up.

“Stop laughing, this isn’t funny and you’re wasting your fucking breath--” He hoists the other man onto his feet shakily.

“Is it stupid to care?” His voice is a whisper even against Grif’s ear, Simmons leaning heavily into his side, one arm around his neck and one holding his wound. The orange soldier attempts to limp forward but he can feel his friend growing heavier by the moment. It’s silent for a while as Grif trudges forward, his hands tightly clasped and keeping Simmons afloat as well as he’s able while his mind wanders furiously, thinking too fast and about too much. Simmons’ head lolls against his own but Grif keeps moving, keeps thinking, pays it no mind, his eyes are probably closed but it’s fine, they’ll find Doc. Doc will fix this. Simmons isn’t dying.

“...to care?” Grif finally asks. The air around them is oddly still and he doesn’t bother making a comment on how heavy Simmons really is. He does not get an answer.


End file.
